Scott Martin

Last Saturday was Groundhog Day in America, where we celebrate this rat-like creature's ability to tell us how soon winter will end, thereby outsmarting gravity-prone weather satellites and TV meteorologists wearing designer parkas.

Cyclists, however, don't need Punxsutawney Phil to tell us we're still in the middle of a never-ending winter. We have our own signs :

• There are burn marks and a sweat swamp on the rug beneath your indoor trainer.

• After contracting your third cold in six weeks of rain rides, you start wearing a surgical mask in public. You haven't touched a doorknob, faucet or elevator button with your bare hands since New Year's. Co-workers scribble "Howard Hughes" on your ID badge and ask you how the Spruce Goose is coming.

• You can no longer identify individual links in your chain. It's just one long strand of toxic black sludge. To touch it is to know fear.

• You've watched so many race videos that you've started talking like Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen. When your spouse asks where you put the clean underwear, you shout, "I'll have to dig deep into the suitcase of courage!"

• When the sun does make a rare appearance, you hiss and cover your face with your rain jacket.

• Your booties, disintegrating from so many trips through the washing machine, sport duct-taped toes and paperclips in place of broken zipper tabs. When you grab your post-ride espresso at the coffee shop, a cop hands you directions to the homeless shelter and says, "Move along, buddy."

• Your good bike carries a half-inch layer of dust. Each evening you stop by to pet its saddle, and sigh.

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